The benefits of a bad dog

They give you everything, even things you don’t want.

In my head, I’ve always had a dog. I feel that I am fundamentally a dog person, and cannot imagine life without them, so I forget that I didn’t actually have a dog until I was nine. The time BD (before dog) is now completely inconsequential, marked only by its absence of a canine friend. The first dog we had was a golden retriever. Wisely my mother wouldn’t let us name the new puppy (bet on him being called Goldie or Sandy) and christened him Angus, after the place of her birth.

Angus was a wonderful dog. He never had a lead or collar, and used to sneak out the house if the door was left open and take himself to the park (he knew the green cross code apparently). He once stayed the night at the police station after straying too far from home. Like many family dogs, he came along when life was busy and chaotic and he had to slot into that space - one where he wasn’t always the number one priority. In my teens and twenties, I got much closer to him, taking him with me whenever I went out, and making sure he had as much attention as he wanted. When he died at 14, we were all bereft. Never one to do things quietly, I created a Facebook group and invited (demanded) every person who knew him to join and share their memories of a dog they didn’t actually own. People complied. We had an ashes scattering ceremony in the local park and fifteen people came to mark the moment. Does that sound ridiculous? It was and it wasn’t. It was necessary to say goodbye to the fifth member of the family.

People do one of two things after a beloved dog dies. They swear off ever getting another one because they can’t imagine ‘replacing’ their friend, or they go out and find any dog the next day just to ameliorate the sadness. My family were firmly in camp one. I was firmly not! Off I went a few months later and acquired a pug puppy (I still feel bad about this now. They have so many health problems, don’t do it). Hamish was to be my dog, but he had other ideas. My mother was the only woman for him, I never got a look in. He was funny, stubborn, vain as hell (he would stop people on the street expecting to be petted). A few years later, I heard about a dog needing to be rehomed and Bonnie came into my life. She was pug sized, but a mishmash of unfortunate breeding. two layers of bottom teeth, one ear up, one down. A kinky tail and a snub nose. She leapt into my arms the first time we met.

Bonnie was the best dog I’ve ever known. Not because she was dutiful but because she was soulful. That sounds silly doesn’t it? But she was. A visitor to our house looked into her eyes and remarked “oh that dog has seen the fall of Rome.” She just knew things. Knew how people were feeling. Everyone adored her, especially my dad who sat with her every night on his shoulder. She saved me when I got divorced, truly.

When Greg and I moved in together, we started talking about getting another dog. Bonnie and Hamish split their time between me and my parents and Hamish was getting older, surely we could add another dog into the mix? Off we went to Battersea. I got there first and met with a member of staff who was showing us the dogs. I caught sight of a large brown Labrador with a gormless look in his eye and told the woman not to show my husband that dog. Off I went to the loo. When I returned, my husband was standing by the Labrador, saying the inevitable. “Can we reserve him?”

God only gives you what you can handle. People say this all the time, and usually it’s a barefaced lie. Barney has been sent to test me. He saw off Hamish and Bonnie within a year of arriving. I had a little stuffed likeness of Bonnie made for my parents when she died. He ate it. He destroyed everything he could get his hands on in the early months. He needs more than two hours walking a day. He refuses to climb stairs (at our house, he’ll do it anywhere else) so I have to carry him up in a sling. If I don’t, he’ll bark until I do. Every walk we go on he’ll find some disgusting discarded food to eat and I’ll worry for 8 hours that it’s going to kill him. He barks at nothing. He hits me with his muckle paws if he feels I’m not giving him enough attention (he never feels like he’s getting enough attention). He once leapt out of a window and dug up a dead bird in my parents' garden. There’s not a single thought in his brain apart from what his next meal will be.

All of this behaviour can be laid at our feet, sure, but we have done a lot of training! He’s just like this. This is his soul. His soul can’t be blamed for the seemingly endless parts of his body being entirely useless and forcing us to stump up for two expensive operations in the space of one year. Not to mention the months of aftercare (you try explaining to an idiotic Labrador that they can’t run or jump for three months).

He is by far the worst dog I’ve ever had. And it’s made me a better dog owner and maybe even a better person. Other dogs slotted into my daily life. I slot into Barney's daily life. Partly because he had a rough start in life, and partly because of his myriad of health issues, I am sort of insanely committed to making sure he’s happy at all times. I do whatever he wants. I am charmed by everything he does. I have endless patience for him and a greater understanding of what dogs need and want from both him and the three wonderful dogs who came before. The pact between human and dog is simple on its surface - the human gave the dog food and in return, the dog submitted. But it requires so much more in reality. A dog will give you everything, if you willingly take on that responsibility then you have to give everything back.

Don’t get a dog if you work out of the house all day. Don’t get a dog if you don’t like walks. Don’t get a dog if you like to pee in peace. Don’t get a dog expecting the dog to be the kind of dog you want. I wanted a small elderly dog called Mary I saw on the Battersea website. I came away with a profoundly inbred Labrador. Sometimes I feel silly or pathetic for allowing my life to revolve around a dog. I don’t have kids, am I just overcompensating? Maybe, but I don’t really think so. I’ve learnt that making an animal happy is a big commitment, but also such a privilege. I love him so much it hurts. I take it seriously. When he dies I will know we gave him a really good life. That’s enough for me.

Thanks for reading this free article. If you like my work, please consider subscribing to my newsletter. A subscription gives you full access to all my writing.